g a good deal like your grandfather."

"But there's no Gretna Green now-a-days," said Trelyon as he went
outside, "so you can't expect me to be perfect, grandmother."

On the first night of his arrival at Eglosilyan he stole away in the
darkness down to the inn. There were no lamps in the steep road, which
was rendered all the darker by the high rocky bank with its rough masses
of foliage: he feared that by accident some one might be out and meet
him. But in the absolute silence under the stars he made his way down
until he was near the inn, and there in the black shadow of the road he
stood and looked at the lighted windows. Roscorla was doubtless
within--lying in an easy-chair, probably, by the fire, while Wenna sang
her old-fashioned songs to him. He would assume the air of being one of
the family now, only holding himself a little above the family. Perhaps
he was talking of the house he meant to take when he and Wenna married.

That was no wholesome food for reflection on which this young man's mind
was now feeding. He stood there in the darkness, himself white as a
ghost, while all the vague imaginings of what might be going on within
the house seemed to be eating at his heart. This, then, was the comfort
he had found by secretly stealing away from London for a day or two! He
had arrived just in time to find his rival triumphant.

The private door of the inn was at this moment opened: a warm glow of
yellow streamed out into the darkness.

"Good-night," said some one: was it Wenna?

"Good-night," was the answer; and then the figure of a man passed down
the road.

Trelyon breathed more freely: at last his rival was out of the house.
Wenna was now alone: would she go up into her own room and think over
all the events of the day? And would she remember that he had come to
Eglosilyan, and that she could, if any such feeling arose in her heart,
summon him at need?

It was very late that night before Trelyon returned: he had gone all
round by the harbor and the cliffs and the high-lying church on the
hill. All in the house had gone to bed, but there was a fire burning in
his study, and there were biscuits and wine on the table. A box of
cigars stood on the mantelpiece. Apparently, he was in no mood for the
indolent comfort thus suggested. He stood for a minute or two before the
fire, staring into it, and seeing other things than the flaming coals
there; then he moved about the room in an impatient and excited fash